


Drunk Shenenigans

by morninghush



Series: Sheriarty 30 Days Challenge [3]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: 30 days challenge, Jim's skull tie, M/M, Mycroft's office, Sheriarty - Freeform, basically just a lot of shenenigans and silliness, drunk shenenigans, jimlock, okay lot's of giggling because that's what people DO when they're drunk right
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-07-14
Updated: 2016-07-14
Packaged: 2018-07-24 01:59:01
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,888
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7488918
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/morninghush/pseuds/morninghush
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sheriarty 30 Days Challenge - Day 3</p>
            </blockquote>





	Drunk Shenenigans

The darkness that clouded Sherlock’s brain was heavy and thick, but after a while scattered spots of bright light started flashing behind closed eyelids. Cool fingers traced his sweaty forehead. Finally a nudge, a hand shaking him firmly. The sensations increased in intensity as his consciousness came slowly trickling back. 

The world spun around and around, its axis seemingly skewed. Something hard pressed against his cheek. A table? Sherlock’s mind couldn’t quite come up with a logical explanation for that one. Nor could he seem to move, even gravity seemed to act out of turn, pushing him firmly down, chaining his limbs with unpleasant heaviness. 

Another nudge, more force this time. “Go away, I’m sleeping.” At least that was what he meant to say. It sounded more like “Ger’off, schweep.” Sherlock couldn’t contain a giggle, it trickled out of him, faint at first, increasing in intensity. 

“Sherlock, for the love of god, will you wake up!” The voice had a definite ring of impatience to it, making Sherlock jerk slightly. The accompanying thunderbolt in his head was ten times stronger. 

That voice. Should it be here? Now? Drawing breaths in through his nose, Sherlock made an effort to pull himself together and slowly opened his eyes. He still couldn’t find the right command to raise his head. 

Not his bedroom. A desk. The items on it swam before his eyes, distorted and blurred. A sign with a name on it visible just outside his field of vision. A small adjustment of his head followed by a faint wave of nausea. 

Sherlock focused his eyes as best he could.

M-… -mes 

No. He blinked and tried again. 

My-…t -olmes 

_Mycroft Holmes._ It snapped in place in his mind. Mycroft’s desk. A small twinge of a memory of why he would be here pulled at his mind. It never quite materialized and he closed his eyes again. It was strange though. Just not strange enough to care. 

Suddenly he was under attack. Water ran in chilly streams down his face, into his eyes and his mouth. It tasted foul. The cool wetness shook him, adrenaline pumping through his veins, rendering him a little more alert. 

Stepping into his line of sight, the culprit revealed himself. Jim bent over him, an empty flower vase in his hand. He was smirking, looking pleased with his own efforts, even he giggled a little. A strange sound to hear from that man. He was a bit unsteady on his feet as well. 

Sherlock’s hazy mind veered off course again. Why would Mycroft have flowers in his office? Another giggled found its way out. The very idea of Mycroft in a flower shop. Must be the secretary’s doing. 

The fog lifted a little. _Jim is here. Holding a vase. We were on a date? Drinking?_ Images of the bar floated through his mind. Sherlock couldn’t recall what kind of drunk shenanigans had landed them here though. 

“Jesus Christ, this is the last time I’m taking you out for drinks. How on earth could you possibly get this drunk?” Jim slurred. From his lopsided position, water still dripping onto Mycroft’s precious chestnut desk, he saw Jim checking his watch, followed by a shake of his head. 

Sherlock pulled himself up into a sitting position. The room wasn’t spinning quite as heavily now. Just enough that he needed to lean his head against the headrest of Mycroft’s comfortable leather chair. 

“What time is it?” This sounded more like his own voice. He was content. Small victories. 

“It’s fucking 5:15, I’ve been trying to wake you for nearly half an hour. Your brother will be here in 45 minutes,” Jim hissed. He pulled a hand through his hair, rumpling it even more than it already was.

“And why are we here?” Sherlock asked, almost afraid to know the answer, would rather just sit like this, staring at Jim forever.

“Christ, you don’t even remember? _You_ thought it would be hilarious to sneak in here. You were, well, not fine, but at least manageable on the way over. Then you just blacked out, like the lightweight you are,” Jim grumbled.

Sherlock snickered, the irony of Jim calling him a lightweight not lost on any of them. Jim rolled his eyes, directing them to the ceiling as if he needed strength from above. Sherlock decided to tempt fate by leaning forward. It could potentially end up with him toppling to the floor, but the prize he had in mind was worth the risk. He grabbed Jim by the wrist and pulled him down onto his lap. 

“I remember now. I wanted to fuck you in Mycroft’s chair,” he breathed into Jim’s ear. Sherlock imagined the look of horror on Mycroft’s face when he found out; he couldn’t help grinning even now. Maybe it would even be enough to avoid any more awkward Christmas mornings for a while. 

Jim came tumbling down on top of him, almost knocking the wind out of him. As Jim turned to face him, Sherlock was relieved to see his face collapsing into a laugh. A definite upside to being drunk with Jim. That laugh didn’t exist when he was sober. 

After a second, Jim pried his wrist free of Sherlock’s hold. “As tempting as that is, I’m going to have to decline. Not in the mood for being caught in the act by the British government just today, thank you.”

Sherlock sighed. “Oh, come on, you know you want it, you want m-.” A hiccup interrupted his attempts at seduction. Another followed quickly and then a third. 

Jim broke out into a laughing fit so severe it shook his entire body, while Sherlock on his part did a mix between a snort, a giggle and another hiccup. All this drunken silliness was like a soothing balm on a burn wound, a breathing space from the bleakness of everyday life, and Sherlock reveled in it. Taking a deep breath, he stretched his neck to nibble on Jim’s earlobe, undeterred by the minor setback. 

“No need to by shy, last week we did it at a fucking crime scene because you were so riled up,” he whispered, enticing heat spreading just from the thought. Gently, he sank his teeth into soft skin, the way he knew was usually irresistible. Not today though, this time Jim pulled away.

“Do you even remember what happened back there, Sherlock?” Jim growled. His heightened emotion told Sherlock this was probably something he ought to remember. Searching, he found it somewhere in the back of his mind. 

Right. He’d neglected to tell Jim that Lestrade and his boys were on their way. Had gotten a bit carried away. Only when the flashing, blue lights started bouncing off the walls, reflecting in dilated pupils, still buried deep inside Jim, he’d let slip an “Oh, I forgot…” 

Sherlock tried to contain his giggles at the memory, to no avail. It had been too amusing to watch Jim scramble, trying to pull clothes back onto an uncooperative body, cursing under his breath as he went along. He’d only shot Sherlock a deadly glance as he rushed out the back entrance of the building, his phone pressed to an ear, probably muttering orders to one or other of his men.

“Yes, sorry about that.” Sherlock wasn’t sorry. Not even the least bit. His smirk gave him away. 

Jim’s eyes narrowed. “You’re not sorry and you know it,” he muttered, echoing Sherlock’s thoughts perfectly. 

Something in Jim’s eyes shifted, and they took on the look of a wild animal on the prowl. He pressed a kiss to Sherlock’s neck, ripping violently at his shirt. Buttons scattered loudly across the floor. It was hard to tell if the lightheaded feeling was from the alcohol or just from Jim being so close. 

“Easy, I liked that shirt,” Sherlock exclaimed, startled at the quick change of pace. Jim worked on his belt buckle, jostling him to pull his trousers down, off, away. 

Jim’s fingers found the knot of his tie, slowly loosening it. As he pulled it entirely off, he turned to straddle Sherlock. Silk tie slipping between his fingers, he reached for Sherlock’s arm, bending first one of them behind his back, then the other. The soft tie slipped around his wrists, securing them together, and then around one of the armrests. 

“Jim… Fuck,” Sherlock exhaled, his body starting to take on a life of its own. He jiggled his hands, heat blooming in his chest as he realized just how little he could move. 

Their eyes met, and Jim kissed Sherlock, inhaled him. Then he moved away and got up, straightening his jacket. Brushing an invisible layer of dust off it. 

“Jim?” Sherlock stuttered, uncertain when he saw the look on his face. That was not the face of Jim Moriarty in the heat of passion. This was giggling, drunk, mischievous Jim, and it scared him a little.

“I told you I’d get you back, didn’t I? For almost having me caught in a compromising position.” His voice was low and seductive still, but this was more the voice of the Devil taking names than anything else. “So sweet of you to hand me this opportunity on a silver platter.”

Sherlock’s blood froze when it dawned on him what Jim was up to. “Don’t you dare, Jim. Don’t you even think about leaving me here. Mycroft will be here any moment now,” he pleaded, annoyed with himself for the pathetic streak in his voice.

“Precisely. I think it’s about time your brother got to know a little more about your… hobbies,” Jim purred. He was like the famous cat with the cream now and Sherlock hated him for looking so gorgeous and smug at the same time. 

Too stunned to say anything, Sherlock just stared as Jim walked somewhat unsteadily across the floor towards the door. Almost distractedly, as if only remembering he missed his tie, he ran his hand across his shirt collar.

“Oh, I don’t think there are _too_ many scull ties out there, so you probably won’t be able to fool that brother of yours,” Jim smirked. “And do take care when you’re trying to get yourself free, so you can bring it back to me in once piece. All right, darling?” 

Jim opened the door and stepped out, closing it behind him. Sherlock watched him go, trying to wriggle free. No luck. 

The door hadn’t even been closed for more than a few seconds before it opened again, Jim’s face reappearing. Relief pulsed through Sherlock; Jim wasn’t going to leave him like this after all. 

“Oh, I forgot. Where are my manners? Give your brother my regards, will you?” His eyes were black and another of his mischievous giggles floated through the air.

Sherlock’s heart fell. “I’ll get you back for this, Jim,” he growled. “You’d better sleep with one eye open.”

Jim didn’t even bother replying, the look he threw over his shoulder as he exited a clear enough message. The game is on. 

Sherlock’s eyes desperately traced the desk, for a moment considering whether it was worth trying to reach the letter opener, but he knew Jim wouldn’t be sloppy. There wasn’t much to do but resign himself to his fate. _Note to self. Never go drinking with Jim again._


End file.
